Chapter 45: Don´t you worry child

“Don’t worry,” Tannous replied. “I have an idea. We’ll marry Youssef off, and his wife will help you instead of Mokhtara.” They considered all the different girls in the village and settled on Zalfa, a neighbor whom Soussène was fond of. “If you’re sure she’s who you want, I’ll go talk to her father right away …”

The father welcomed Tannous, as is the custom in the village. He asked him to sit down, had refreshing drinks served, and made small talk before they got to the reason for the visit. “I came to ask for your daughter’s hand for Youssef,” said the visitor. “She will be his!” was the host’s immediate response.

The young woman was already getting into bed and had just let down her long hair when her father called out, “Zalfa, do up your hair again; we’ve married you off!” This sentence has remained in the villagers’ memory, even among people who no longer know who said it or in what circumstances. In referring to a precipitate, hasty, and fairly dictatorial marriage, we sometimes quip, “Do up your hair again, we’ve married you off!”

Having done up her hair again and put her clothes back on, Zalfa came in and appeared, head lowered, before her father. He said, “We’ve promised you to Youssef. Are you glad?” She uttered a shy, submissive yes, and didn’t seem too displeased. Then Tannous went home and found Youssef fast asleep. He had qualms about waking him, so he told him only on the next day that they had decided to marry him off, that they had selected a wife for him, and that she had consented. The bridegroom wasn’t even eighteen.

I owe this story to the man who, over the years, probably told me more than anyone else about our large family. Born in 1911, he is Youssef and Gebrayel’s nephew. He is Botros’s nephew as well, and also his student, protégé, and admirer. A lawyer, public speaker, and womanizer, he once held high political office. Those who know the family and our country will easily guess who he is. In these pages, however, I shall simply call him the Orator, since I adopted the rule of not giving the real names of relatives who are still living when the book is completed.

According to the Orator—though I read this in The Tree as well—shortly after marrying Zalfa, Youssef set up a tannery at the entrance to the village. I never saw it when it was in operation, but the building is still standing, intact. Most of my childhood walks with the other children in the family led us to that building. This was also where the car road from the city ended; beyond, people had to continue on foot.

Youssef ran this business with occasional help from his brothers. Later he was assisted by his eldest son, Nayef. But the work was difficult, unpleasant because of the smell, and not always lucrative. There is no question that it didn’t offer very tempting opportunities, particularly for the young people in the family, and it certainly didn’t prevent their training their gazes further, beyond the sea that can be glimpsed at the horizon when you sit on the tannery roof, as I often did as a child.

I don’t know whether Nayef left for Cuba on his own initiative or at his uncle Gebrayel’s express invitation. What I do know is that the two men didn’t like each other at all. Very soon they became rivals and even downright enemies. The nephew opened his own business in Havana, a stone’s throw away from his uncle’s.

In a letter to his brothers, Gebrayel complained about Nayef’s “questionable activities” and had very harsh words for the family; instead of sending him someone he could trust like a son, who would relieve him in his work, they had sent him a poisoned gift that only added to his worries and troubles.

These remarks upset Youssef, and to make up for Nayef, he promised to send one of his other sons to Cuba—Nassif, a dreamer but a thoroughly honest and affectionate boy.

Gebrayel welcomed him without any hostility or prejudice and saw that he was indeed different from his brother. But, because Gebrayel was a demanding company head, this was not enough. In one of his letters to Botros, he complained in a tone that was both paternal and despairing.

As for our nephew Nassif, he is still the same. His health is good, but he makes slow progress, contrary to what we expected of him.

I see only two reasons for this. First, his keeping company with Nayef and his acolytes, though I categorically prohibited him from seeing them, but he doesn’t listen to me. Secondly, the letters he receives from home that disrupt his mood. One day, he receives a letter saying, “Our dearest child,” or “Our dearest brother, the work here is not going well, the hides are too expensive, good workers are scarce, and buyers are even scarcer. With the wars, the turmoil, and various misfortunes, life here is becoming impossible, everyone is sad. Work well where you are, perhaps one day we will all come and join you there …” After that Nassif concentrates on his work, he becomes serious, assiduous, and it is a pleasure to watch him.

Then another letter arrives: “Our child” or “Our brother.” “We’re happy to tell you that everything is going well here, our country is better off than America, our business has never been as prosperous, we’re earning a lot of money; there’s so much demand that we can’t handle it anymore. It would be good if you could come help us out!” Right away, Nassif can’t concentrate on his work anymore; he starts talking to me about going back.

That’s how he’s been since he arrived. Every day we have to scan his face to see what kind of mood he is in. He’s always thinking about home, he doesn’t travel around the island, he doesn’t want to see anything, and he doesn’t want to learn anything. I keep telling him he’s wrong, sometimes gently and sometimes not so gently, but nothing can be done. And this has been going on for three years! Three years that he’s been in this state of indecision and melancholy! Three years that he’s been suffering from this ailment whose symptoms I’ve just described, and he refuses to undergo treatment!

I haven’t written to his father yet, because I know he hasn’t recovered from the suffering that Nayef’s behavior caused him, and I don’t want to heap more grief on him. On the other hand, I’m sure you’ll agree with me that I cannot tolerate this state of affairs indefinitely. That’s why I’m writing you, so you’ll tell me, with your wisdom, how I should solve this problem!

My feeling is that it would be best for this boy to go home, because he clearly has no desire to make headway here in spite of everything I have done to make his work easier. Things that were completely within his reach! For example, I put him in charge of the store’s food department, with the job of supervising it, and nothing else; in exchange I gave him half the profits. This is how he earned almost one hundred French pounds last year—net for him!—and this year he’ll earn even more. If he were more motivated and made better use of his intelligence, if he knew how to adjust the orders according to his customers, he could have earned four to five thousand riyals in this sector alone, seeing as there are nearly six thousand sons of Arabs on the island who all come to our stores to buy the food products they are accustomed to, and we have no competition in this sector.

Furthermore, in order to reward him for the help he gives us in other areas—packaging, etc.—I pay him forty gold riyals a month; and I keep an eye on him constantly for an encouraging sign that would allow me to go into a full-fledged business partnership with him … So tell me, dearest brother, don’t you think I’m treating him decently?

I’ve asked Nassif more than once to write to his father to explain the situation to him with the same candor, and ask him whether he should stay here or return home. But he never has, either because he can’t make up his mind or for some other reason that he hasn’t told me. Or else he would prefer me to do it. Well, so now I have! Now it’s up to you to explain the situation to his father. He can think about it with complete freedom and then convey his instructions to me. I shall do whatever he wants and whatever will comfort him, but I can’t be expected to resign myself to this waste of time and fecklessness that leads nowhere. This is no way to reap the fruits of emigration!